


Watching You

by falsteloj



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: rarepair_shorts, M/M, Quidditch, Rivalry, School, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 18:31:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/518250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsteloj/pseuds/falsteloj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver can't stop watching. Written for a rarepair_shorts exchange a couple of years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watching You

“Wood,” Marcus Flint sneers, the word sounding clipped and forced through his mouthful of uneven teeth.

Oliver nods his acknowledgement curtly, holding his hand out only for it to be caught in a bruising grip. He squeezes back as tightly as he can, determined not to give Flint and – by association – the rest of the Slytherin team the satisfaction of seeing just how close their team captain is to breaking bones. 

“This may only be practice,” Hooch tells them, eyes narrowed at the testosterone fuelled display, “but I want to see a fair match, boys.”

Flint raises an eyebrow and, before Oliver has chance to think anymore about it, the whistle sounds and the game is underway. 

* * *

Up in the air, cold wind whipping his hair about his face and making him tighten his fingers around his broom, Oliver watches Flint. Watches the way the older boy moves gracefully on his broom, nothing like the lumbering strides he makes on solid ground. 

Oliver thinks that there’s no question what Flint will do when he – finally – leaves school. Not if the whispers he hears in the Puddlemere United Youth changing rooms have the slightest grain of truth to them. Flint catches his eye from across the field and smirks knowingly, goading Oliver into action. 

This might only be practice, but he can still show Flint what he’s made of.

* * *

At dinner Oliver finds himself sitting facing Flint. Albeit with two tables, benches and both Fred Weasley and that little brat Crabbe between them, impairing his view. Flint is surrounded by half his team, sniggering as Pucey leans in to mutter something in his ear. 

Oliver scowls down into his own plate and tries not to think about how he just lost to Flint. No matter what he does he always seems to be losing to Flint. 

Back in first year he had stared out of the window during every transfiguration lesson. Watched transfixed as the older boys flying loops during their timetabled quidditch practice. 

In second year he’d picked out the most talented, the ones he knew he’d have to work hard to beat if he ever wanted to hoist the cup above his head. Roger Davis and Cedric Diggory, Terence Higgs and Mira Stutterby. 

And Marcus Flint. 

He tried to puzzle him out all that year. How could somebody so huge and awkward be so accomplished in the air? How could somebody so surly and strange looking be so popular with the opposite sex? How could he get Flint to notice him? 

Why did he even care?

By fourth year he was actually on the team and Flint had cornered him in a dimly lit corridor somewhere between the Great Hall and the library, Oliver can never remember where exactly, and threatened to crush every bone in his body if he didn’t stop spying on their tactics. 

Flint looks up then, grinning widely – the expression odd on his harshly featured face – and glances pointedly down the table in the direction of Malfoy’s white-blond hair before getting up and leaving. 

Oliver had never had the nerve to tell him that spying hadn’t even crossed his mind.

* * *

Later that evening he finds himself traipsing once again through a dimly lit corridor, heading for the library. Head full of optimum dive angles and formations and the look he knows will be on Flint’s face when he lifts the cup.

Anger and jealousy and, underneath it all, admiration. Recognition.

It’s with a start then that he looks up to see Flint standing in his path, arms folded across his chest. Oliver thinks of side stepping him, dismissing the idea as quickly as it comes. Whatever Flint wants, he’s not the type to give up easily.

“Wood,” Flint murmurs, and it’s different from earlier. Softer, somehow. Yet, at the same time, darker; it makes the hairs on his arms stand on end and his cheeks flush with colour. 

“Flint,” Oliver responds, raising a questioning eyebrow and ignoring the way his heart is hammering with the strength of a world class beater in his chest. 

“You’ve been watching me.”

It isn’t a question, and Oliver can’t deny it so just stands there mutely, waiting for Flint to tell him what this is about. The silence stretches out and Oliver thinks of fifth year, of the hard work and ultimate frustration. Of sixth year and the relief. Of September and the lurching in his stomach at the sight of Flint’s scowling face at the start of year feast.

Oliver tries to drop his gaze, unnerved by the intensity of the other boy’s dark eyes. Suddenly afraid Flint can read the answer loud and clear even though he hasn’t said a single word. 

Flint takes a step forward, at once both menacing and uncertain,

“I’ve been watching you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/) or Twitter [@falsteloj](https://twitter.com/falsteloj). :)


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